


Ode to the Night Sky

by matchamozza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Body Worship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Modeling, Photography, an abundance of space metaphors, no beta we die like men, no i'm serious there's a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchamozza/pseuds/matchamozza
Summary: The concept of a muse was so foreign and out of reach for Kiyoomi before he met Atsumu. He drew inspiration from the world around him, but having one thing, one person be the driving force behind his creativity had sounded laughable. It's in nights like these that he wonders how he could have ever been so naive to the strength a muse could have.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 302





	Ode to the Night Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like a man possessed. Blurb to blurb, minimal proof-reading, the only thing fueling me being talks with the lovely Beanie about a model AU and a single croissant that I ate during a snack break. It's 3am at the time I finished writing this and I can't believe this is the first fic I'm posting in years, but I really like it and I hope some readers find some enjoyment in it too!!

In directing his models, Kiyoomi never touches them.

Not a single one, regardless of familiarity or hygiene. It has just as much to do with respect as it does with his own distaste for physical contact— placing models' limbs where he needs them, tilting their chins, and nudging their feet just so is unnecessary. The manipulation of their bodies is _their_ job, Kiyoomi's is to direct the story and trust them to know how to move based on his carefully-worded direction alone.

This, however, is entirely different.

It's become a sort of foreplay for him and Atsumu, these private modeling sessions in their bedroom. There are precautions taken, of course. Kiyoomi uses an older camera that he would never even consider bringing to work and any photos that he considers less than perfect are deleted after the fact.

(They all get deleted. No picture has yet to compare to the real thing.)

Their usual dark cotton sheets have been swapped for various swaths of white cloth. Silk, velvet, chiffon bunched in some spots and pooling around Atsumu's bare body in others, some of the chiffon draping over his skin in a sheer wash. 

With the softboxes and reflectors around them, color gels mixed to cast a cool glow over Atsumu, he's the perfect picture of a moonlit dream. He's a god of sleep, lazing in the home he's made for himself among the clouds, his beauty hidden away above fluffed white mounds hanging over his sleeping subjects. 

He's a god, but here, Kiyoomi has the honor and privilege of guiding his arms and legs into place without words. It's a silent trust between them. A trust in Atsumu to do his utmost to bring Kiyoomi's dreams to light, and a trust in Kiyoomi to treat Atsumu with nothing less than reverence even as he moves him about like a rag doll.

The only sounds that fill the room are that of a shutter clicking and the soft music coming from the speaker on their nightstand— Atsumu's choice. Always Atsumu's choice.

_If I'm gonna be yer mannequin, ya gotta let me at least pick out the music for the department store._

It had sounded ridiculous, but Kiyoomi at least can't say that Atsumu has bad taste in music. He's long since learned that Atsumu has curated playlists for the mood they want to set, and he seems to have as good an ear for ambiance as Kiyoomi has an eye for spacial relationship. The melody is a numbing sap, sweet and seeping into his skin, lyrics talking of dreams and counting sheep and holding a lover in bed (in the short section he can understand).

Funny, how Atsumu always seems to know what it is Kiyoomi is trying to convey before he could even say it.

"Ya fallin' asleep on the job?"

He isn't, of course. He's only paused in place for a few moments while he got lost in thought, but Atsumu's voice is just as syrupy as the song that Kiyoomi thinks he could easily tuck himself into Atsumu's side among those sheets and sleep away for a century.

He doesn't. He brings a knee onto the bed and leans across Atsumu's body to gently nudge each of his fingers on his opposite hand, curling them and prodding them until the fingertips form a perfect arch. Tilting Atsumu's chin down 5 degrees, shifting it to the right two centimeters, and turning his head 20 degrees towards his right shoulder brings the perfect contrast between shadow and light across Atsumu's face— catching him between the realm of sleep and the waking world.

And Atsumu maintains it without so much as twitching because he is nothing less than professional.

Kiyoomi lines up the shot, leans back down to push Atsumu's right knee up so it lifts, breaking up the too-straight line of his body. Stands on the corner of the bed above him, realigns the shot, and clicks.

Kiyoomi always gets a bit frenzied once he lands Atsumu in what he considers to be the perfect pose. He changes angles, he hops off the bed and crouches beside the mattress, he shifts and slides fabric and pushes lighting fixtures around to get more, more. He does everything in his power to capture the blinding beauty that is a stripped-down and pliant Miya Atsumu.

The concept of a muse was so foreign and out of reach for Kiyoomi before he met Atsumu. He drew inspiration from the world around him, but having one thing, _one person_ be the driving force behind his creativity had sounded laughable. It's in nights like these that he wonders how he could have ever been so naive to the strength a muse could have. 

No matter which way Atsumu poses for him, no matter the strength of light blanketing him, no matter the angles or the props or the set, the sight of him sends sparks firing through Kiyoomi. They light up and drive him to keep going, keep pushing and working and running his hands over Atsumu's body the way he wouldn't with any other model until the flame swallows him whole and he's blind to anything other than _Atsumu_.

The guise of work is broken as soon as the camera strap leaves Kiyoomi's neck and he drops it onto the mattress beside them, hands focusing on mapping warm skin rather than molding it into his vision. 

"So good," he murmurs, breathless already as he crawls up the bed over Atsumu and draws his own cold fingers over _his_ _muse's_ form until he cups the visage that is the source of all he wants to put into the world. Atsumu. Charming, awe-inspiring, divine Atsumu. "Like always, you're so good for me."

"Took ya long enough." All that professionalism Atsumu had is thrown out the window and Kiyoomi can feel a set of hands grabbing at him with just as much fervor, breaking free of the invisible chains that had locked him in place. 

It's now, at the height of their desperation that they always get lost and drown in their mutual passions for their craft— for each other, in a way they usually wouldn't be able to on the job. It isn't that the work is inherently erotic, but the canvas that Atsumu has let Kiyoomi make of him and the utter devotion to Kiyoomi's work as much as his own sends his heart soaring.

Up, above to their bed of clouds, visible only to the eyes of a moonlit beauty.

(Mock moonlight, but those are semantics.)

Kiyoomi's tongue whispers his gratitude over Atsumu's for him to drink up the unspoken words, his touches starlight dancing across his skin and withdrawing to strip himself of the only thing separating them. 

Atsumu is his night sky, twinkling and reflecting beams of light at him nowhere near as harsh and blinding and burning as the direct rays of the sun, and Kiyoomi is quick to rid himself of his clothes to let the constellations dotting his body collide with the galaxies buried away within Atsumu. The white fabric around them will be dirtied. The chiffon may even tear, but Kiyoomi can't bring himself to worry about it. His only concern is to feel every inch of the vast, unattainable sky, and he'll drag apart all the clouds in the way if he must.

What's more overwhelming is the sky reaches for him right back, setting every nerve alight. 

They tangle in each other so deeply that it's difficult to tell where bronzed limbs meet pearlescent and where fabric meets skin. There are so many textures, so many sounds between lips and tongues and fingers and lube and the push and pull and spread and stretch that they drown out the music coming from the speaker. It isn't the song Kiyoomi's listening to, anyway.

His ears are finely attuned to the low whine falling prettily from Atsumu's lips underneath him as he slides in, the pleas for _'more'_ and _'faster'_ listened to for the way the words are gasped rather than said, but otherwise go ignored.

Kiyoomi takes his time, dragging back out and pushing in just as leisurely, relishing in the way it makes Atsumu squirm. Atsumu who, earlier that night had precise and sharp focus that kept him still as a marble statue, now lays useless and writhing at the hands of the same man he was frozen for.

"Omi— Omi, _fuck_ , please-" 

"Beg all you want. I'm taking my time."

That earns him an immature punch to the shoulder that means absolutely nothing if the way Atsumu grabs for one of his hands immediately after means anything, and Kiyoomi obliges by taking _both_ hands to pin Atsumu's to the bed and lace their fingers together. 

Leaning over him as he fucks into Atsumu, Kiyoomi's body blocks out the soft blue glow of the lights behind him, and the gold in Atsumu's eyes stands out even in the dim light.

But they aren't quite gold. Not so glaring, not so saturated. Atsumu's looking up at him with smooth brass eyes that lend themselves to Kiyoomi's scrutiny, warm clouds he could get lost in while he searches deeper, deeper, with the possibility of not finding anywhere to land. 

It's Saturn that is pulling him in, suffocating him and stealing his breath and surrounding him in that brass haze he finds himself floating in. Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu's hands, all-too-aware of the way their fingers slot together without barrier. It's then, the thought strikes him.

What is Saturn without a ring? 

"Marry me."

The words burst out, but he doesn't mean them any less. In fact, he means them so much that they jump from his tongue before he can give himself a chance to overthink them and hold back, and Kiyoomi slows the cant of his hips to hold all of Atsumu's attention in their joined palms. 

"Marry me," he repeats, with more conviction when all he'd gotten was a surprised blink the first time as if a proposal had been the furthest thing from Atsumu's realm of possibility.

"You-Yer gonna propose right in the middle of sex?"

It's incredulous. It's shocked, but it isn't a no, so Kiyoomi presses deeper to draw a gasp from Atsumu. "No, I'm not going to," there's a flicker of something in those Saturn gold eyes as they cast off to the side, and Kiyoomi taps his forehead to Atsumu's to bring his gaze back, "I just did, and you haven't answered."

There's silence. Stunned silence, save for the lull of music vaguely heard now that there wasn't any more sound coming from the only two people in the room, but Kiyoomi doesn't register it.

The kick of a heel into the back of his thigh is something he does register, jolting him forward and making Atsumu choke on the laugh that was already halfway out of his mouth. "You've got some balls, proposin' to me without a ring." Atsumu is dragging out his answer, and part of Kiyoomi knows it's probably petty revenge for the way he'd been teased, but the other part of him that is impatient for a response nearly snaps before Atsumu interrupts with a "Lucky for you, I never saw myself marryin' the conventional type. You freaky, conceptual fuck."

It's a yes, then, because the words aren't spoken with nearly as much bite as they would be if they'd been said when they first met and there's a softness in Atsumu's stare that wasn't there before. An open vulnerability that his tongue hasn't caught up with yet.

Kiyoomi's determined to get it the rest of the way there.

"You're a stubborn idiot," he grumbles as he leans down to tug Atsumu's lip between his teeth. Not harsh enough to mar the pretty pink skin, marks are mostly off-limits on Atsumu, but enough to threaten. "I hate it, I can't stand it."

There's another laugh then, and Kiyoomi cuts it off with a punch of his hips, but Atsumu is quick to regain his voice to jab back. "Ha! Hate it enough ta marry me?"

"So you agree, you'll marry me?"

"I'm not disagreein'."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Mm..." Atsumu's eyes have slid shut now, only to fly back open when Kiyoomi suddenly pulls out and shifts to sit back on his haunches, the whimper tumbling from his lips the most pathetic sound he's let out all night. " _God_ , babe. Of _course,_ I'll fuckin' marry you. It's a yes-"

Kiyoomi thrusts back in and presses chest to chest to Atsumu, each gasped, _"Yes, yes!"_ echoing and rattling around inside his head.

Despite his earlier reservations to answer, yes sounds like it's the only word in Atsumu's vocabulary, and it's the only song Kiyoomi wants to ever listen to for as long as he lives.

And god, does Atsumu sing. His voice carries and bounces off the walls while Kiyoomi gives him _more, faster_ , just as he'd wanted, and Kiyoomi's head is dropped down forward onto the pillow where his lips trace declarations of love he wouldn't dare utter in any other moment against the shell of Atsumu's ear. The points at which their bodies connect burn white-hot and when Kiyoomi pulls his face away far enough to get a good look at him, Atsumu is _shining_. He glows brighter than anything the room, like he's the sole source of light rather than the fixtures situated just feet away from the bed. 

He's a star, his star, and always has been. 

Always will be.

Supernovas burst behind Kiyoomi's eyelids and he's sure they're there for Atsumu too. It's powerful and luminous and swallows them both up until they drop in a messy pile of limbs, dissolving into stardust and spreading out over the piled clouds.

Something digs into Kiyoomi's side as he and Atsumu catch their breath when he gracelessly flops down beside him, and he pats around to save his camera from being crushed. 

Just as he's about to set it on the nightstand, there's a sight catching at the corner of his eye. Inspiration in the form of Atsumu holding a shamefully bare left hand in front of his face as he stares up with a smile that can't be described as anything other than love drunk. He's unkempt, sweating, unprepared and unguarded.

He is all that, and he's _surprised_ at the click of a camera shutter.

"Perfect."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SASS server for hyping me up while I dropped snippets in the chat <333 I almost slumped and gave up when I got stuck halfway through but then I got my second wind from y'all's encouragement and I ended up loving the end product a lot more.
> 
> If you're wondering about the song I mentioned, I had 'Could Be A Curse' by KAINA and Sen Morimoto in mind :)


End file.
